


And All I See is White and Red

by Sarma, TeyrianTimelord



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, F/M, No Smut, Period Typical Violence, Russian Revolution, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, implied sex, russian civil war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 12:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarma/pseuds/Sarma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeyrianTimelord/pseuds/TeyrianTimelord
Summary: Bucky is a supporter of the communist uprising. Natasha is the protector of the Romanov children. Fate and politics seem determined to separate them, but it will take more than a world war, a revolution, the murder of a royal family, the fission of a nation, and an ocean to keep the two apart.(Russian Civil War AU)





	And All I See is White and Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first mini bang and I'm so happy to be involved! Many, many thanks to www.tumblr.com/SARMA for her wonderful work on this project. Her artwork is gorgeous, so please visit her page for the rest of her wonderful content.
> 
> I am a hobbyist historian with no formal education in Russian history, so my information is all self-study. If there are any glaring errors, please reach out to me.
> 
> Enjoy!!!

 

And All I See is White and Red

 

**_St Petersburg, April 1910_ **

 

Bucky secretly loved the rain. He knew it was bad for business, that it meant he would need to spend extra time scrubbing mud from the floor and dealing with bitter customers, but there was a beauty to it nonetheless. A beauty that only comes with the unparallelled serenity of sitting by a window and listening to the soft padder of falling water while watching the rest of the world adjust accordingly. It made time feel funny; everyone on the street moved with either extra speediness to stay as dry as possible or trudged with exhaustion and relegation to nature’s tears, like flipping through a book instead of reading it properly. The distraction from his work usually vexed his father, but thankfully he had a list the size of his arm of errands to run, so Bucky relished in his solitude, absentmindedly wiping down the inside of the windows for a fifth time for another excuse to glance outside. 

 

The sound of the bell above the front door ringing faintly drew him to attention.

 

“What can I do for you to-” he started, but stopped short. 

 

The girl standing in the middle of their front room was exquisitely dressed from head to toe in black silk and finely spun wool, embroidered with red threadwork that must have been weeks worth of work from skilled fingers. A string of pearls probably worth more than his life hung at the base of her throat, only a few shades lighter than her skin. The whole ensemble could have fed the block for a week, but instead of the brilliant radiance that would have accompanied such a masterpiece on a sunny day, the young woman was completely drenched, and instead held more of the demeanor of a wet cat doing its best not to yowl in displeasure. The sopping wet mess that must have been a beautiful hat at the beginning of the day was drooping down around her ears, and she frustratedly threw it to the ground, allowing a mass of damp red hair to frame her face instead. Bucky tried not to gape. Someone like her did not belong somewhere like this.

 

“Get me a drink,” she commanded with the tone of a person who was used to giving orders, reaching into a pocket to drop more money on the counter than anything he could offer her would be worth. “A strong one.” 

 

Without question, Bucky rummaged through a cabinet to find the bottle of port his father tried to hide for special occasions. Once he put it on the counter, the girl didn’t even wait for him to find a glass before she took a long gulp that had to have twisted her stomach. Things were moving so quickly, Bucky couldn’t be sure if this was really happening or just a figment of his imagination.

 

“Miss, are you alright?” he finally managed to ask. 

 

She glanced up at him, and the malcontent that had been coating her face dropped for the slightest moment to reveal a coy smirk. 

 

“I’m hiding,” she whispered with a theatrical volume. “I needed to go somewhere they can never find me, just for a while.”

 

“They?”

 

“Alexandra and her children. I love them, but there are days I want to throttle them in their sleep,” she elaborated and took another long drink of the port. “Promise you won’t tell anyone I’m here?” 

 

A pit formed in Bucky’s stomach. He didn’t want to trust this girl, with her expensive clothes and sparkling eyes. He grew up being told the wealthy despised people like him, that they would destroy him without a second thought, could buy and sell his whole life on a whim, but she seemed… harmless. And… nice? Or as harmless and nice as a girl with eyes like hers could be. 

 

“Who do I have to tell?” he said with a chuckle. “Hide here whenever you want.” 

 

The smirk on her face grew brighter. 

 

“Let’s hope you don’t come to regret that offer,” she laughed. “My name is Natasha.”

 

“I’m Bucky.”

  
  


**_St Petersburg, July 1914_ **

 

“You’re an idiot,” Natasha growled, ripping Bucky’s enlistment papers from his hands.

 

“What was I supposed to do, just stay here and starve?” he retorted.

 

It only made Natasha roll her eyes.

 

“Of course, how stupid of me. It’s so much better for you to die in a foreign land with a bullet in your skull and your guts being used to grease German tanks.”

 

“That’s not fair and you know it. The world is at war, and I’d be conscripted in a month anyway.”

 

The statement did nothing to appease Natasha’s apparent simmering rage. He knew she had good reason to be angry. It had taken six months of weekly visits to his shop before she finally revealed the truth about who she was and what she did. Her father was a general in the Imperial Army, and her mother was a close confidant of Empress Alexandra. Her job was to accompany the royal children; to be the Tsarina’s eyes and ears. She was born and bred with politics and military stratagem in her blood, and while her heart heart truly belonged to the royal family, she also had no illusions about the deterioration of the monarchy. She had a front row seat to it. At first Bucky had been furious when she told him. He always knew she was rich, but now she was one of  _ them _ . He had screamed at her, told her to leave his family alone, and for a few weeks she did. But it didn’t take much of her absence for him to realize his mistake. Yes, she was a noble, but she listened to him when he complained, brought him extra food when sales were weak, and told him fantastical stories when he was bored. She had become a friend, and he was inextricably relieved when she finally came back. Natasha had barely set foot in the door when he apologized profusely, nearly begging her forgiveness for losing his temper…. They were inseparable ever since. She’d told him on numerous occasions that he was her break in the storm, her relief from the deceptive facades and plots of the palace. And now he was taking that away from her. 

 

“They’re sending you to die, don’t you see that?” Natasha practically shouted. “You’re nothing but cannon fodder to them. Men like my father don’t care about common soldiers; you won’t last the year.”

 

Bucky knew he couldn’t argue with her. Nothing he could say would make sense, because the whole situation didn’t make sense. Men were killing each other in droves; countries all across Europe were clenched in chaos and greed. In his heart, he knew this was the right thing to do. This war would destroy everything it touched and more. It was his duty to do everything in his power to bring it to an end as swiftly as possible, even if that meant leaving his entire world behind. His job, his family, his best friend. Bucky gently took Natasha’s hands, though they were still shaking with fury. 

 

“I promise I’ll write to you as often as I can. Write me back?” 

 

Though at first she looked as if she might lash out, Natasha lurched forward and embraced him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shoulder. He could feel the softness of her hair brush against his lips and he knew this was what he would miss the most.  _ She  _ was what he would miss the most.

 

“No,” she answered, softly and sweetly in way that shouldn’t have matched such a cruel statement. “You’ll be dead before my letters can reach you.” 

  
  


**_Near Tannenberg, East Prussia, August 1914_ **

 

_ You have to live. You have to. You can’t die yet. You have to see Natasha. You have to tell her how you feel. You have to live. You have to. You can’t die yet. You have to see Natasha. You have to- _

 

The words looped around his brain over and over again, screaming louder and louder in an attempt to drown out the excruciating pain radiating from his arm. He couldn’t open his eyes. He knew if he looked up, he would only see the most unforgiving sun to ever rise. If he looked left, he’d see whatever mangled mess remained of the shrapnel damage done to his body. If he looked right, there’d be nothing but an expansion of death. Seven days they put up a fight and still the Germans cut them down like wheat in a harvest field. How many had he watched them kill? Hundreds? Thousands? It didn’t matter now. He had to live. He had to.

 

“Help,” he cried out weakly. The rasp felt like sandpaper in this throat. “Please, someone, help me…” It was more of a gravelly groan than anything else. 

 

_ “Be quiet! If the Germans hear you, they’ll take you away.” _

 

The voice was hushed, gently rustling in his ears from a directionless space like a soft breeze dancing through autumn leaves. He finally used every last bit of willpower that hadn’t bled into the soil to open his eyes. Bucky found himself staring into the shape of a figure silhouetted by the harsh sun. It bent and moved in a way that told what little was left of his rational mind that it couldn’t possibly be real. No earthly thing billowed and ebbed as ethereally as this. A ghost? A spirit? An angel? He couldn’t tell, but the voice and the halo of scarlett hair was unmistakable. 

 

“Natasha? That’s impossible,” whispered, reaching up with his good arm. “You’re not really here.”

 

“ _ You’re right. I’m in St Petersburg, where you need to be. Get up.”  _

 

“I can’t. You were right, Tasha, I’m going to die here.” 

 

The words stung his tongue and he felt tears prick his eyes, summoned by the agony spreading around his entire body and the hopelessness slowly crushing his heart. He should have listened to her. He could have been home in his shop, sweeping the floors while Natasha read to him from the newspaper and regaled him with stories of the Imperial children’s shenanigans. But she was hundreds of miles away, and now his mind was punishing him for his stupidity. 

 

“ _ I just told you to get up. Now. Get. Up.”  _

 

Natasha, or rather, the apparition of Natasha, reached down and put her hands on either side of his face. Instead of skin, he felt radiating warmth and an airy touch similar to a butterfly landing on a human hand. As she brought herself closer, her features became clearer, but softer with more shimmer. The gleam that he first thoughts was an angelic sheen was actually water. Raindrops. They rolled over her cheeks and through her hair the same way they did on the first day he first met her four years ago. He wasn’t sure if the moisture on his brow was his own sweat or water dripping from the strands of hair falling around them both, forming a curtain of safe-haven. A gentle tug and every bit of physical strength left brought him to a sitting position. 

 

“ _ Get up. Come home. I’ll see you soon.” _

 

“Natasha, wait! I love-”

 

Just as soon as she appeared, Natasha vanished, leaving Bucky alone with the carnage all around and the confession hanging on his lips. He couldn’t decide if he was extremely lucky or if God had abandoned him completely, because there were no living soldiers within eyeshot, Russian or German. No one to capture him, no one to carry him to safety… no one to shoot him for desertion. He had to live. He had to. 

  
  


**_Petrograd, January 1917_ **

 

There was a dull  _ crack!  _ as Bucky walked into the shop, the shattered glass from the front window breaking under his boot. It was fitting; his heart was making the same sound. He had to learn from the tailor next door that amidst the food shortages and riots, his father had closed up and fled to the countryside without leaving a new address. When he asked about a woman in fine black silk coming to check on things, the man had only laughed about speaking in fairytales. The neighborhood could barely afford bread, much less failing businesses, so his home was left abandoned, and the windows he used to clean so meticulously while watching the rain were now nothing more than target practice for bored and hungry children. He knew deep in his bones that this place was haunted… and he was the ghost. 

 

Had it been worth it? Barely sewing up his own arm after using a bayonet to pry out the flack shards? Crawling his way out of Prussia on his hands and knees? Hiding from the army in barns and forests like an animal? Stealing from innocent people desperate to feed their children? Walking under cover of darkness until his feet bled? Freezing near to death in the abandoned homes of dead soldiers, stripping the corpses of their unburied families who had been unable to keep themselves alive through the winter? He was alive. He was home. But there was no shop. No father. No Natasha. Just broken glass and the broken notion that he had helped anyone in this war but the Tsar. 

 

“Bad luck,” the tailor had tried consoling him. 

 

But that wasn’t true. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was all stupidity; the incompetent stupidity of the monarchy and his own stupidity for believing there was a fight to be won. Even if the Allies defeated the Central Powers, the Russian people never stood a chance. Win or lose, the people would pay. They should have learned by now. The people always pay. Bucky deliberately leaned back on his heel, crushing another piece of glass so he could hear the cracking sound again and pretend it was the Tsar’s skull. Regaining his focus, he ducked behind the counter and began to look through what little had been left behind or gone unlooted. Thankfully, for once in what seemed like ages, luck was on his side. On the bottom shelf, buried under a heap of what seemed to be only rubbish, was just what he was looking for, exactly where his father had hidden it so many years ago. Bucky gently pulled out an aging pamphlet, careful not to harm the pages that had become delicate from exposure to the elements. It had been nearly falling apart the first time he saw it as a child, and even more so now. However, the title was still legible: Chto Delat’?

 

_ What Is To Be Done? Burning Questions of Our Movement. N. Lenin.   _

  
  


**_Petrograd, February 1917_ **

 

Natasha pulled her shawl further up and around until it rested just under her nose, concealing her hair completely and most of her face. She had seen her fair share of protests and riots (that was just life in Petrograd), but the unrest this time was different. It was as if the entire city was mourning and raging together. Too many people had died this time, both away in the war and here at home. Her heart ached for the men and women surrounding her in the sea of anger; families without food, mothers without sons, wives without husbands, children without parents. But their words overtook her sympathy.  _ Kill the Tsar! Kill the Tsar!  _ She couldn’t let Olga, Maria, Anastasia, Tatiana, and Alexei become children without parents too. Yes, they could be rowdy and argumentative, but she loved them. They were all she had left. Having heard enough of the crowd, she quietly slipped away toward the train station, back toward Alexander Palace. 

 

The entire Imperial residence was on edge. While staff continued their work at a normal pace to avoid punishment, footfalls fell a little lighter and eyes cast down a little lower. It was fear and indecision. Many of them had already heard the news that some of the Cossacks and police had joined the workers in their strike. The time to decide where their allegiance fell was close at hand, and Natasha couldn’t blame them in the least. No one had gone untouched by this war, and she knew that just as well as anyone. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of Bucky, and of the last words she said to him. She knew she had been right. She knew he was dead on the front somewhere, his body left to rot in the sun or stay frozen all winter in the frost, but she wished she hadn’t said it. She wished she had held him a little longer, spoken a little softer, told him she’d wake up every morning hoping against all hope that she had been wrong. There was nothing that could be done to change that now, though. Everyone with a loved one away on the front had the same regrets. Natasha was not special, and it did no good to think otherwise. She moved quickly to avoid having to speak to anyone or make eye contact for too long. 

 

The children were exactly where she imagined they would be, sitting closely together in Alexei’s room, speaking to each other in soft tones in case anyone might be listening. She slipped in quietly as to not draw attention to herself from the guards or maids, but Anastasia noticed her arrival almost instantly.

 

“Natasha, you’re back!” the Grand Duchess exclaimed, leaping up to wrap her in a massive embrace, followed quickly by Alexei and Maria. “We were terrified when mama said you went out to the city.”

 

Natasha put on a soft smile of comfort, though out of the corner of her eye she could see the sad disbelief in Olga and Tatiana’s eyes. 

 

“I wouldn’t be a very good spy for your mother if I couldn’t survive a protest,  Malenkaya,” she replied with a gentle tustle to the young princess’ hair. 

 

“Anna says it’s not just a protest,” Maria blurted, to which her older sisters glared venomously. “She says the people are turning on us and this time there’s no hope of stopping them. They want to kill papa. What if they want to kill us?”

 

A sinking hole formed in Natasha’s chest. She had no doubt the Bolsheviks’ threats extended to everyone in the Imperial family, not just the Tsar. Nevermind the work they had done in the hospitals or the good faith fostered with the soldiers themselves.  

 

“Anyone who wants to hurt you will have to go through me. I promise,” Natasha said sternly.

 

Coming on the tail of her words, the door to the children’s room flew open and in the now open threshold stood the captain of the Tsarina’s personal guard. 

 

“Alianova,” he stated gruffly. “The Empress has commanded that you return to Petrograd at once. The Litovsky, Preobrazhensky,  Volynsky, and Moskovsky Regiments are in open revolt. Your orders are to inventory who else might be at risk of mutiny and put an end to their treason by any means necessary.” 

 

She could hear the children gasp at the announcement, and Natasha could have driven the knife in her garter through the man’s throat for his indiscretion. But she knew it was worse than they could have imagined if he was willing to be so bold. 

 

“Don’t go, Tasha, please,” Tatiana quietly begged. “If the Bolsheviks find out you’re a spy, they’ll kill you.” 

 

“Then they won’t find out,” she whispered back with a smirk that took all her effort to fake. Of course, the young woman was right. 

 

As she hugged each of the five children individually and prepared for her departure, the guard captain stopped her briefly outside the door, pulling her to a more secluded portion of the corridor. 

 

“The Duma’s provisional committee has declared itself the official government of Russia, and the Petrograd Soviets are gaining momentum quickly. More and more people betray the monarchy by the moment,” he said under his breath with as little lip movement as possible. “Pressure on the Tsarina is immense and our communication with the Tsar is severely limited. I fear there is not much we can do at this point. You’ve been a loyal woman, Natasha. I know you would fight to the bitter end, but save yourself while you still can.” 

 

He swiftly turned and walked down the hall before she had a chance to reply. If she had any doubts in her mind before, they were gone now. Life as she knew it was about to change forever.

  
  


**_Petrograd, March 1917_ **

 

The air was thick with smoke that burned Bucky’s eyes despite the cold air that rushed around his face. They had been marching most of the night, gathering weapons and burning any symbols of the monarchy left in the streets. Flags had been set ablaze, statues brought down, but it seemed to do nothing to appease the ever-growing crowd. It made him as excited as it made him sick. He remembered standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other men, far from home, desperate to eat one more meal and see one more sunrise. But this time it mattered. This time, he could really help people. He couldn’t bring back his fallen comrades, or regain full use of his left arm, or reopen his father’s business, or make the ones he loved reappear, but he could avenge his loss, and those of his countrymen. 

 

He blinked through the cloud of smoke stinging his eyes, and for a moment believed the apparition was back. It had to be the apparition, a figment concocted by his brain again as the environment reminded him more and more of the war front. The likeness was uncanny, exactly how he imagined she would be when he returned, all bright eyes and red hair and taut lips. But the etherealness from the battlefield was gone. There was no halo, no fading or flickering movement around her edges. And as the crowd around him grew louder and louder with joy in the flames, he knew the woman across the square was flesh and blood. In a moment of impulse he screamed over his fellow protesters, “NATASHA!” but the woman only shuffled deeper into the sea of people. Maybe it wasn’t her. In fact, it probably wasn’t. But he couldn’t take the chance. 

 

Bucky pushed his way through the crowd. The faster he moved the tighter the streets seemed to become, as if the city itself was trying to fight him. An overwhelming sense of claustrophobia began to invade his whole body, and the woman he was chasing suddenly felt miles away. He found himself reaching out, desperately shouting for her over and over. Just when the flash of red hair was about to disappear around the corner to a seperate block, by some miracle, she stopped. She stopped and looked right at him. Every fear, every doubt, every loss of hope vanished. It was Natasha. It was unmistakably, inarguably his Natasha. She realized it too. A flash of recognition came across her face. Then disbelief. Then joy. Where a mere moment ago the world seemed to be crushing in around him, it now no longer existed. Everyone else faded away in the smoke and ash and frozen air. Everyone but Natasha.  They ran, not caring about who was being shoved out of the way, until they met in the middle in the largest, tightest embrace he could manage with his injured arm. 

 

“You’re alive,” she gasped against the skin of his neck. “You’re alive!”

 

Bucky couldn’t bring himself to say a single word yet. Instead he just held her as closely as he could, as if he could pull her into his heart and never have to let her go again. Leaving her was a mistake he would never make again. Never. For a moment, the sting of the smoke vanished, the ebbing ache in his arm no longer existed, the pain in his heart stopped. He felt her hands find their way under his coat, and even through the thickness of his shirt and her gloves, relished in being closer to her than he had been in years. Christ, she even still smelled exactly the same as he remembered. 

 

“I love you,” he finally murmured, burying his face in her hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t say so sooner, and not a day went by that I didn’t regret it. I love you, Natasha. I love you.”

 

“You’re a Bolshevik now?” she whispers, only halfway to a question, and Bucky’s heart begins to sink again. That was not the response he wanted, but she is definitely still the Natasha he always knew.

 

“Aren’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here in the riots?” he asked in return. “Tasha, Nicholas abdicated; you’re free now.” 

 

He sees hurt flash in her eyes. 

 

“The monarchy may have failed, but the Romanovs are all I have. Those children need me, I can’t abandon them,” she said in a voice that echoed with anger and despair. Bucky held her tighter. 

 

“That’s not true anymore. You have me. Let’s leave the city, forget about the politics, start over-”

 

Natasha suddenly pushed herself out of his grasp, and the world came into focus again. He was once more aware of the shouting crowds, the blinding smoke, the freezing cold, and the look of utter disappointment on Natasha’s face. 

 

“This isn’t just politics. It’s our future,  _ my future.  _ Their lives are in danger and you’re asking me to leave them at the mercy of Lenin?” her words were nearly drowned by the chanting around them. 

 

“Can we please just talk about this somewhere else, in private?” he nearly begged and extended his right hand. He couldn’t see her go, not now. “I won’t ask anything of you until then, I promise.” 

 

She eyed him warily, but after a few breaths accepted his outstretched hand. A sigh of relief threatened to escape his mouth, so instead he stopped it by bringing her hand to his lips. He couldn’t stop his eyes from slipping closed as she turned it so his cheek was resting in her palm. It took all his self control not to melt into her touch and he willed himself to make his way back toward the empty corpse of the shop, loathing having to keep his eyes on the crowded streets instead of her face. For the love of all that was good in this world, he wanted nothing more than to stare at her for days, to relearn every line of her face and make up for all the time he had stupidly let the war take from them. He needed to know her again. 

 

“I love you too,” he barely heard her say. 

  
  


**Petrograd, May 1918**

 

Bucky dreamt of their life together, as had become his habit over the last few months. The nightmares of the war were slowly drifting away and in turn being replaced with new memories with happier endings. He dreamt of coming home from work at the factory to a warm stove, a hot meal, and a loving embrace. He dreamt of the nights they spent together, as close as any two people could be, shielding each other from the cold. He dreamt of the the long conversations that lasted for hours after the lights went out, about everything from what had happened during the gap to what their plans were for the future. He cherished the miracle that this life was not only possible, but that it was finally following him into sleep. His new life with Natasha seemed perfect. At least, that’s how it had been for the last few months. Today, like the past few days, he was not the first one awake. He wasn’t given the chance to hold her while she still slept and take in the serenity of her rest before starting the day. Instead she was already up and dressed, pacing the floor back and forth with a crumpled piece of paper clutched in one hand. 

 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked groggily, grateful that the summer air was already warm this early in the morning. 

 

“Lenin is up to something,” she answered without looking him in the eye or stopping her trudge. “The Imperial family is being moved to Yekaterinburg. Olga managed to slip a letter past the guards before being put on the train, and my contacts informed me the Tsar and Tsarina are already there.” 

 

All traces of fatigue instantly disappeared from Bucky’s mind and body. It had been a struggle for Natasha to adjust to life outside the palace, not because she missed the opulence and wealth, but because for over a decade her life’s purpose had been to protect the monarchy and all it stood for. For several months, she remained in contact with the the eldest of the Romanov children, sneaking them information from the outside world and running secret errands around the confines of their house arrest. She had a foot in each world, and it hadn’t been hard for Bucky to see that it was slowly killing her to be apart from them. It was only after the family moved to Tobolsk that she received an official letter from the Tsarina thanking her for her service and relieving her of duty for the foreseeable future. Initially, it had crushed her. She went days without eating or sleeping, refusing to leave the apartment above the store or let Bucky touch her. It was only after a letter from Princess Tatiana arrived wishing her the best in life to come that she was finally put at ease. But in his heart, and hers too, Bucky knew she would never be free of them. Now the day had come, and fear formed a black hole in his stomach.

 

“They’ll be safe in Yekaterinburg,” he reassured, though he suspected that was probably a lie. “It’s probably for their own safety.”

 

Natasha finally stopped walking back and forth to shoot him a glare that could shatter glass. 

 

“You’re blind if you believe that.”

 

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but quickly decided against it. There was nothing he could say. Nicholas and his wife deserved to hang for what they had done to their country. They deserved to suffer the way their people had suffered, with hunger and war and brutality. They deserved to finally be punished for everything their regime had put him through, and all the children in the world wouldn’t change his mind. But those children were also everything to Natasha. She loved them like her own siblings, and they had nothing to do with the endless pain of their parents. However, he highly doubted the other Bolsheviks cared. After a few moments of bitter silence, he rose from the bed and put his hands on either side of her face. 

 

“I only want what’s best for us, Tasha. Please believe me,” he said softly. He couldn’t bring himself to say _I need you, Tasha._ _Please don’t leave me._

 

She didn’t answer. Instead, Natasha just stood up on her toes and planted a soft kiss on his lips. He still wanted to melt every time. 

 

“Have an excellent day at work.”

 

But when he came home from the factory, he didn’t have to check to know she was gone. A note sat on the bed with only one word:

 

_ Sorry.  _

  
  


**Yekaterinburg, July 1918**

 

Natasha heard the gunshots. The sound was hushed and damped by the basement walls, barely more than soft pops in the air, but she heard them. Heard them and felt them in her heart. They were seemingly endless. The barrages kept firing ceaselessly, and every time silence fell and she hoped it was all over, they began again. With all the noise and  intermittent silences, she knew it wasn’t clean or precise. Lenin didn’t even have the mercy to send trained killers to do the job, just angry soldiers. She wished she was in there, giving her last breath to slaughter as many men as she could. A piece of her desperately wanted to believe that it was just Nicholas in that cellar, but in her bones she knew the Bolsheviks weren’t prepared to let anyone with a claim to the Imperial bloodline leave. She imagined Olga doing her best to stay strong despite the horror that must have been unfolding, Tatiana clinging to her mother, Maria sobbing her eyes out, Anastasia screaming at the top of her lungs… Alexei, as the only son, being one of the first to go. They would leave this earth with the last memory of their parent and siblings being slaughtered in front of them. Natasha almost vomited. This was her fault. If she hadn’t left to be with Bucky, she could have saved them. Her life would be be worth saving even just one of them.  She had promised anyone who intended to hurt those children would have to go through her first. She lied.

 

Tears tried to push their way out of her eyes, but Natasha forced them down. Crying would not bring the Romanovs back, nor would it avenge them. She laid low, huddled under the nearby bushes and camouflaged in her black overcoat and scarf within the midnight shadows, and waited. After the cacophony of chaos within the house, the eerie silence that fell for the next hour was nearly as agonizing. Finally, the hush was broken by the sound of a car engine and a small truck pulled away from the compound. It sputtered more than it should have, riding low with the weight that was no doubt the corpses of the family she had known since birth. At least that much was her advantage. The Yekaterinburg roads were boggy even on a good day, and the summer rains had made them even more terrible than usual. Still, it was a grueling combination of running and jogging to keep up with its pace, sweat soaking her clothes and mud seeping into her boots. Occasionally she would stumble, tripping over rocks or being hit in the face with branches, but the scrapes and bruises meant nothing. No physical pain could match the aching in her soul. Mile after mile she trailed the truck, until it finally stopped nearly ten miles away from the bloody execution site. But what she saw as she approached dim lights was even more terrifying. More accurately, she heard the mob before she saw them. 

 

Near two dozen men were waiting for the truck as it approached, and she could practically smell the alcohol on them all from where she hid 50 feet away. At least they would be too drunk to notice her, so she risked moving closer, crawling through the underbrush and mud on her stomach until she was near enough to see clearly every single one of their faces. One by one, she committed them to memory, especially the two men in uniform who came out of the cab of the truck. Rage boiled within her as she recognized the one who had been in the passenger seat:  Yakov Yurovsky. She had taken notice of him during earlier Bolshevik dissent. She had personally seen to his arrest for his radical tendencies when she first began spying for the Tsar, and now she wished she had put a bullet in his skull when she had the chance. 

 

“Bury the bodies,” Yurovsky ordered the crowd tersely as the driver unceremoniously opened the back of the truck, but was met with intoxicated shouts of objection.

 

“We didn’t come here to dig,” one of them barked. “We were promised a hanging and a royal fuck.”

 

“You were made no such promises,” Yurovsky replied with a self-assured and deadpanned authority that made Natasha shiver. “You were brought here to do a job. Now get to work before I have you shot as well.” 

 

The men muttered in disgruntlement, but began unloading the truck nonetheless. Natasha had to cover her mouth to stifle a gasp. She knew what happened to them. She had heard the gunfire and spent the several hours trailing the truck imagining what the Romanovs’ last moments must have been like, but that didn’t come close to preparing her for the sight of her precious children that she loved so dearly being tossed onto the ground with less care than slaughtered animals. Rays of the rising sun clearly exposed the stab wounds and bullet holes riddling their bodies. The exit wounds were the worst. The gaping hole in Olga’s head exposed the garbled red and brown mass that used to be her brain. Nearly all of Tatiana’s beautiful face was in fragments. There was barely enough left of Alexei to recognize him. And it only got worse as the mob began stripping the bodies, piling their clothes in a heap of torn fabric and blood that had not yet dried. Being so close, seeing them all bare and exposed with their fatal injuries exposed for all to see was too much. This time, no matter what she did, Natasha couldn’t stop the tears from streaming out of her eyes. As one of the men reached for Alexandra, she lurched forward, nearly giving away her position before she reeled herself back. If the Tsarina had been alive, she would have fought back as much as possible despite the wheelchair she had occupied in her last weeks. She might have been an incompetent ruler, but she was a confidant and proud woman. She would have kicked and screamed and had her accoster locked in prison for the rest of his miserable life. But there was no spirit, no soul, no life left in her body to keep him from running his hands all over and into her. 

 

“That’s enough,” Yurovsky commanded gruffly, drawing the pistol at his side. “You’re dismissed.” 

 

The man scoffed. 

 

“At least I can die in peace having touched the royal cunt.”

 

Natasha felt like she was going to vomit. As the man stumbled away, grumbling to himself about how disappointing the night had been, she made a choice. Staying here would not do any good. She knew where the gravesite was now and could return when the men had finally dispersed and Yurovsky returned to Moscow. The time to mourn would come later. The time to take the first step in her revenge was now. The man was so drunk that he could barely haul himself up into his horse-drawn cart, much less notice a small and lithe figure slip into the back and nestle herself among the refuse in the back. It was broad daylight now, but she had become quite skilled at moving around unseen, and she felt as if this was the moment it mattered most. She huddled in the cart, listening carefully to the road, waiting until they were far enough from the other men that no one would hear the screaming. A faint grin touched Natasha’s face as she felt a rope lying by her feet. The first stroke of luck in what felt like years. Finally, they were far enough back toward the town that hardly anyone could be coming and going. Channeling all the rage and fury and sorrow that had been building up over the night, Natasha grabbed the rope and leapt forward to throw it around the man’s neck. She twisted. Hard. 

 

Taken by surprise and losing breath quickly, the man reached up to grab the rope constricting his throat, dropping the reins and sending the cart zigzagging as the single horse struggled to process the panic. Keeping a hold on the rope with one hand, Natasha used the other to grab his fingers and pull them backwards until she felt a sharp snap and a stifled yowl of pain escaped the man’s contorted mouth. 

 

“I hope touching the royal cunt was worth it,” she hissed in his ear, and gave one final, violent pull of the rope to snap his neck. 

  
  


**Omsk, Siberia, March 1919**

 

“My dear Alianova!” the admiral greeted warmly as he embraced Natasha warmly. “It is so good to see you alive. After the revolt in Petrograd and the senseless violence against the Tsar’s family, we all assumed you were dead.” 

 

“Very nearly, sir,” she replied, the exhaustion evident event to her own ear. 

 

“It would appear so. You’re all skin and bones, my dear. I’m afraid we aren’t as well supplied as we would like to be until the French make good on their word, but we have enough to feed and clothe you,” he said, patting her softly on the shoulder. 

 

“Thank you, sir,” she answered and he smiled in return. 

 

“I cannot offer anything less to the only child of my dearest friend. I believe your father’s ghost would haunt me for the rest of my days otherwise. Go, rest and recover, and when you are well we will speak again.” 

 

Natasha let out a deep sigh of relief as one of his aids led her out of the office and across the residence until she was presented with a room of her own, the bathtub already full of steaming hot water. She nearly cried at the sight. It had been nearly two years since she was given a proper bath. The young man who served as her guide had barely closed the door behind him when she hastily threw off her clothes and submerged herself completely, feeling the warmth and wetness consume her entire body with a comforting sting. She had not know what reception she would receive from Admiral Kolchak since she had not seen him since before the Great War, and she was grateful beyond belief. The past 10 months had been hard on her body and soul, and the admiral was her last hope. 

 

Coming up for air, Natasha closed her eyes and tried not to think of Bucky. He had been on her mind more frequently than usual, seeping into her thoughts and haunting her dreams, and it was driving her mad. She missed him more than anything in the world, but how could she face him now? She’d destroyed their life together to go on a mission she had failed. Everything good in her life was gone and there was no one to blame but herself. But she could take it out on  Yurovsky and Lenin and the Bolsheviks, and that’s exactly what she was spending her time doing. She’d remained in  Yekaterinburg for several months after the execution, keeping her head down and her ears open, putting on the persona of a beggar and stealing without remorse what she needed to survive. And some things she didn’t need, just to punish the place that took her family from her. It took time to pick off the men who had been involved in the disposal of their bodies without raising suspicions. But of course, she couldn’t kill them all. Then there would be no one around to live with torment. One lost his house in a mysterious fire. Some awoke in the morning to find their livestock poisoned. Several had their stairs or carts or ladders break at inopportune times. And a few, lucky few, became widowers or childless overnight. But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t slake her rage, or quell her grief, or keep her mind off Bucky. She often wondered if he would even want the person she was now…

 

Natasha stayed in the bathtub scrubbing weeks worth of grime from her skin and hair until the water became too cold to bear. In the closet she found a simple wool dress, plain flaxen pants, and an overcoat far too large for her. Quickly dressing herself, she slowly became aware of the small mirror on the wall. God, she quite nearly did not recognize the woman staring back at her. She was leaner than the last time she saw her own reflection, gaunter, whiter, the shine gone from her hair, no doubt from poor nutrition. “Vain” was never a word she would have used to describe herself, but back in the palace she could recognize her beauty and use it to her advantage. That was obviously gone now. She looked more like death. But that was alright, now that death was what she lived for. 

 

She wandered aimlessly down the corridor until she found a soldier who could direct her back to Admiral Kolchak. He led her to a dining room set for three where Kolchak and another man new to her were already sitting and conversing. They rose as she entered. 

 

“Ah, now you look more like yourself,” Kolchak greeted. “Natasha, I would like to introduce you to Mikhail Kozlov, my minister of intelligence.” 

 

The man was everything average a man could be. Average height, average weight, neither handsome nor ugly, no distinguishable features to stand out in a crowd. The perfect body for a spy. He lightly took her hand and kissed it with barely enough contact for her to feel it. 

 

“A true honor, Ms. Alianova,” he said with an even voice. “The Tsar spoke highly of your loyalty and… talent for espionage.” 

 

“The honor is all mine,” Natasha replied politely and let him pull out her chair for her so they could settle in. 

 

Her mouth watered as the first fine food she had seen since Petrograd was placed before them, and it took all her self control to eat slowly and without the desperation of a starving woman who had been fueled more by revenge than true meals. Kolchak and Kozlov spoke briefly of military matters before turning their attention back to Natasha.

 

“Now tell me, my dear, why are you here?” the admiral asked. 

 

“I want a job,” Natasha answered curtly. Three years ago she would have played the sweet niece, used his love for her father as a tool to get what she wanted, but she needed him to know her seriousness and desperation to win the war was growing higher by the day. “I think you’ll find my skill set to be invaluable.”

 

Kolchak raised an eyebrow inquisitively and Kozlov smiled.

 

“You’re referring to your work in Yekaterinburg, I assume?” Kozlov said, leaning forward in his chair. 

 

He produced a stack of papers from the bag next to his chair and began thumbing through them

 

“25 local men were informed of events at the Ipatiev House. Within eight months of the Imperial family’s execution, three went missing, five were found dead, seven were injured, six suffered financial hardship, and four lost their families. Thorough, precise, and subtle. I doubt anyone but the most observant of the Cheka would even notice the connection. I’m impressed.” The words were practically purring. 

 

Natasha swallowed hard. How much did this man really know about her? 

 

“We have more than just a job for you, Ms. Alianova,” he continued. “We have an assignment. The conflict in Tsaritsyn is beginning to lean toward a Red victory. Find out what you can about their plans, report back, and kill any Chekist who gives you the opportunity.” 

 

“I know you will make your father and our country proud,” Kolchak added. 

 

Natasha packed a bag that night. 

  
  


**Moscow, December 1919**

 

“Please, I don’t know anything,” the man in the chair on the left side of the room sobbed. 

 

Bucky rubbed the blade of his knife with a piece of fabric cut from the shirt of the man in the chair on the right side of the room. It didn’t really need to be cleaned, but he found that the movement tended to add to the intimidation. Not that he needed extra intimidation, but it certainly did the trick now. Both men were trembling, from cold or fear, or perhaps a combination of the two. The man on the left, despite his sobs and cries for mercy, was fairly in tacted, with only a few minor scrapes and bruises from when he was first arrested. He could not say the same for the man on the right, however, who had fainted from the pain fifteen minutes ago. Bucky wasn’t surprised. Very few people stayed awake after six strips of skin were cut from the hand. At least this one made it to eight before passing out. Bucky tossed the knife aside in just the right angle so the tip embedded itself in the wooden table next to them and he leaned in over the man on the left. 

 

“I have it on good authority that you do,” he growled deeply. “And for every minute that you don’t tell me Denikin’s plans for mobilizing to Tsaritsyn, your brother will lose a finger. Understand?”

 

“I don’t know anything,” he repeated, practically choking on his tears. “Please, please, just let him go.” 

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. They always said the same thing. 

 

“Use your next 43 seconds wisely. For his sake.” 

 

It took three fingers for him to finally talk. There was a level of admiration he had to concede to. Time moved differently in the Lubyanka. Three minutes could feel like an eternity when trapped in a basement with nothing to fill the air but shrieks echoing off the walls. The fact that the man had lasted this long was almost as admirable as the resilience to stay awake by the other. He finally divulged that General Denikin planned to mobilize before summer after French supplies arrived. Bucky was relieved he could finally slit both their throats and call a hard day’s work over. The aids would take care of the bodies later. When he walked up from the basement, sleeves still rolled up and arms still spattered with blood, he found  the director himself waiting for him at the top of the stairs. 

 

“Stalin and Voroshilov still have several months until White reinforcements will be arriving in Tsaritsyn,” Bucky reported stiffly. It was better not to waste time on idle greetings and small talk. 

 

“And you’re sure that intelligence is reliable?” Dzerzhinsky asked with a cocked eyebrow. 

 

“The last three people I interrogated all said the same.” 

 

This seemed to satisfy him. 

 

“Excellent work, comrade,” he said with little change in his tone to indicate those were his true feelings. “You’ve risen through the ranks quite quickly since your arrival in Moscow. Your hard work and dedication to the cause will not go unnoticed or unrewarded. Now get some rest; you leave for Tsaritsyn first thing tomorrow.” 

 

“Thank you, director,” Bucky deadpanned before his superior waved him away in dismissal. 

 

Thankfully the walk from the Lubyanka to Bucky’s small apartment was not far. Dzerzhinsky wanted him nearby in case he was needed on short notice, and Bucky knew better than to ask who lived here beforehand. He rolled down the sleeves of his coat to hide the blood as he walked through the square, keeping his gaze down to avoid looking at the faces of people around him. He had problems with that now. He didn’t like to see anyone if he didn’t have to. If they were sober, it reminded him of the prosperity that was promised but never came. If they were sad, it reminded him of prisoners who never made it home. If they were happy, it reminded him of Natasha. And he was tired of all of it. All of this was nothing more than the war all over again. He had joined a cause he thought would save lives, but instead he ended up taking them and still the common people suffered in the endless turmoil of yet another conflict. He was tired, he was sick to death of the bloodshed, but now it was all he had. And worse… he was good at it. Unbelievably so. And there were times he enjoyed it. The work had been easy in the beginning, when the Cheka first noticed him at a Bolshevik rally and recruited him for the cause, offering a chance to make “real change for the future of Russia.” It was the perfect utilization of the numbness festering inside him. The screams didn’t turn his stomach or crush his moral compass, they just reminded him of Prussia and of the sound his heart made when Natasha left. It was his chance to take out all his rage and anger and hate for the system that had torn him apart, both inside and out. 

 

It had taken nearly a year, but Bucky was finally getting used to coming back to an empty home (if where he lived could be called a home). For months now, some primal, involuntary part of his brain would get his hopes up expecting to find Natasha reclined on the bed, rubbing her feet and unwinding from a busy day. There were days the longing was so strong that he begged God to send the same apparition that appeared to him in Tannenberg so he could at least see her face again. He finally stopped hoping, but she was never far from his thoughts. He wondered where she was, what she was doing, whether or not she was alive… if she had finally come to her senses. Bucky had rejoiced when he finally heard that Nicholas and his family were dead. Russia could be free from the monarchy and Natasha could be free from their influence. He knew she would be heartbroken, that she would need to mourn, but he hoped she would eventually realize it was for the best and come home. But months came and went without so much as a letter letting him know that she was alive. A part of him hoped that she was, if only for the sake of not seeing everything he had done. His armor of apathy that had shielded his conscience was wearing thin. 

 

When he finally arrived back, he got to work scrubbing the dried blood stains from his skin. That was something else he had gotten quite good at doing. It was practically part of his daily routine now. The Cheka had a vast hunger for information as they were finally closing in on victory over the White Army and there was no shortage of prisoners being shipped in from the warfront. The only enthusiasm he had left for this job was to put an end to the war as fast as possible so he could finally die in peace. The violence was becoming… unsustainable. 

 

Bucky didn’t sleep well that night, but then again that was a rare occurrence these days. The screams that used to soothe his aching soul were beginning to seep into his dreams. His nightmares.

  
  


**_Tsaritsyn, January 1920_ **

 

Natasha cursed under her breath and clutched the rifle to her chest. She was out of ammunition and the abandoned building she was hiding in was surrounded by Red soldier marching in with no mercy on their minds. Stalin and Voroshilov had come in to the city with the full force of Moscow behind them. The Red Army was as well supplied and well organized as it had ever been, and the rest of her compatriots didn’t stand a chance. In only a year and half, Kolchak had already lost 70,000 men in Tsaritsyn alone and the rising body count had yet to stop. She watched from a window of the top floor as the Reds mowed down White soldiers in droves, cutting through them faster and cleaner than a hot knife through butter. She had taken as many shots as she could, but her supplies were limited and hiding her position was crucial. She wasn’t a soldier, and her work wasn’t done yet. Kolchak and Kozlov both knew this was the end of their affair in the region and they would have no choice but to pull back to the Crimea, but they weren’t about to retreat without dealing one final blow to the Soviets, and Natasha was their parting gift.  Dzerzhinsky was sending practically half a legion of some of his finest Chekists to keep the city in line. Her mission was to survive until nightfall and then destroy them. Kozlov warned her that this might be the assignment that kills her. She didn’t care. This was one of the cleanest jobs she had been given since what the rest of the world was calling the “White Terror” began. Even if she died tonight and judgement day never came, it would be too short of a reprieve. 

 

Nightfall did not come swiftly. Natasha sat hunkered down for hours, huddling in the corner with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of dying men and shells of heavy artillery, praying none of the tanks would fire on her post. Every so often the entire block would quake with the reverberation of another collapsing building. She just needed to wait until the cover of darkness, then she could finally make her move. Some well-placed bribes and a few gouged eyes had gotten her a report that the Cheka had set up a base in a seized farm just on the outskirts of town. If she could escape the city, it would be easy enough to climb into their bedrooms and slit their throats. If she was lucky, she could flee with the rest of the army to Crimea. If she was luckier, a bullet would go through the back of her skull while she ran. 

 

When the heavy darkness of midnight finally descended over what was still standing of Tsaritsyn, Natasha left her rifle under the floorboards, layered herself in some abandoned bedraggled clothes she found in the alleyway, and wiped a few patches of soot from the fireplace over her face. The people of the city had not suffered nearly as many civilian casualties as she had expected, but that was no guarantee that soldiers wouldn’t behave like soldiers. She knew better than to give them the benefit of the doubt. Their tendencies to corner a woman alone had often played to her advantage when she needed to lure a target into a secure location location, but now was not the time for that, and the men she hunted down now would just as easily carve her to pieces and hang her from the nearest tree. The farmhouse was not hard to find, as it was the only building this far out of town with lights visible through the window shutters. There were two guards posted at the door and two patrolling the perimeter; obviously Lenin’s secret police wanted to stay secret for now. A mistake, in this case. She slipped past the measly security measures with ease, effortlessly scaling the wall to reach the first unlit room. Her eyes had already adjusted to the dimness, giving her the ability to quietly take stock of the room. It was definitely monastic accommodations, but that didn’t seem to affect the man sleeping soundly a rope bed pushed against the wall. He was enveloped completely from head to toe, leaving no part of his body exposed to the frigid January air. Natasha silently smirked and slid the knife she was carrying out of its sheath in her boot. This would be too easy. But as she crept over to the slumbering Chekist and quickly pulled back the heavy blanket, she was met with wide eyes and a pistol jammed right against the base of her chin. Wide brown eyes she recognized. 

 

“Bucky?” she whispered through the breath caught in her throat. 

 

No. No, no, no, this could not be possible. She heard the click of his pistol’s hammer being pulled back. 

 

“You’re not real,” he hissed, pushing the muzzle harder into her neck. “This is just another nightmare.” 

 

For a moment, she wondered if he was right. This had to be a nightmare. She had hoped he was still in Petrograd, using his work from the factory to rebuild his father’s business and live a comfortable life. She imagined him meeting a nice girl, a good woman who had never killed before, starting a family with her and getting his happy ending for the rest of his days. In her worst nights she worried that he had been killed in the riots, or lost all hope and withered away into nothingness. This was so much worse. The Cheka were the men who stole entire families away from their homes in the dead of night to torture one by one. The men who skinned prisoners alive. The men who shot civilians for trying to save their homes. The men who executed children in the streets. The men who did exactly what she had done since the night the Romanovs were killed. The men who were just like her. 

 

“I’m real, I promise,” she said even more hushed this time. 

 

Bucky’s hand began to tremble and she could feel the tremors resonating through his pistol. His eyes were growing wild now, and it was plain as day that we was not all there. His hair was longer than she remembered, his jaw and cheeks more chiseled than before, and dark circles hung under his eyes that showed nights of endlessly terrible sleep. His left arm still hung by his side, no more healed after all this time. Natasha thought her heart died with her children when the mob of Yekaterinburg threw their bodies in the earth, but she must have been wrong. She must have been wrong because she could feel an aching in her chest that could only be her heart breaking again. He slowly lowered the gun from her throat, but instead of putting it down, he pushed it into her free hand that wasn’t holding the knife. 

 

“Then kill me,” he said, voice cold and sorrowful. “Prove you’re here and I can die happy. I’m tired, Tasha, I’m so tired.” 

 

Without hesitation, she put both weapons on the ground and slid them across the floor. Her mind was still reeling, trying to process everything happening at what seemed like the speed of light. The world started to spin around her and she clutched onto his bare shoulders to keep it all together. At first he recoiled at her sudden touch, as if expecting her hands to be made of fire, but after a few seconds she felt him latch onto her as well. He gripped her waist and pulled her in close, pushing the scarf down from her head so he could bury his face in her hair the way he used to before she abandoned him. Oh God, how could he even look at her after that? After all she had put him through?

 

“I’m sorry for everything,” she murmured against the burning heat of his skin. 

 

“I’m so tired,” he repeated again, but this time slower and softer, gingerly stroking the back of her neck. “I know why you’re here, please, just finish it.” 

 

“Not a single chance in hell.” 

 

He didn’t respond. It was easy to feel in the tenseness of his muscles that he was physically struggling to put words together. Natasha held him tighter, hoping all her remorse and regret could bleed from her own body into his. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She could suffer for her own mistakes, but he should have walked free of them. 

 

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” he warned in a voice that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. 

 

He paused for a moment with a silence that seemed to stop the world.

 

“I had a choice, Natasha, and I made the wrong one over and over again. I’ve turned into a monster and I just want it all to end.” 

 

Guilt wrapped a hand around Natasha’s throat and squeezed. She knew exactly what he had done, and why he did it. At least he started with good intentions; she just wanted revenge. Taking in as deep a breath as she could, Natasha placed her hands on either side of his face and stared him down. If she wasn’t careful, she could get lost in those big, sad eyes. 

 

“Then let’s end it,” she said. “Together. I don’t care how, as long as I get to be with you again. If you want me to kill you, I will, but know that I won’t be far behind. I can’t leave you again.” 

 

“You can’t, I-” he started, but she put a finger to his lips. 

 

“Let’s run away, like you said before. I’ve got plenty of contacts and favors to call in, we can can go anywhere in the world. We’ve done enough here.” 

 

Bucky didn’t say anything. Instead he just closed his eyes, pressed his face against her neck, and Natasha felt cold tears drip down her skin. 

  
  


**_Brooklyn, April 1921 - Epilogue_ **

 

“This is it. Rent is due on the first of every month. No animals allowed.” 

 

The landlord unlocked the apartment door, allowing Bucky and Natasha to walk inside. It was only one room, with rickety wood floors and flaking plaster on the walls. A crack in the ceiling promised to leak every time it rained. Still, Bucky let out a sigh of relief. One way or another, they could make this a home. Of course, after nearly two weeks at sea, he would be happy in a bedraggled cloth tent as long as it was on dry land. They had come a long way from Tsaritsyn to this apartment, over many months of running and hiding, and despite the nagging hints that the whole building might fall down around them at any time, he couldn’t have been happier. Bucky looked over to Natasha, whose face was completely unreadable, but he knew she was feeling the same way. Their journey had not been easy. Despite everything that had happened, Russia was still their home and it was terrifying to leave all they knew so far behind. Natasha spoke English nearly fluently and was vaguely familiar with American customs, but he was a slow learner when it came to languages. They were plunging into a whole new world he didn’t feel all together prepared for, but he knew in his heart that everything was going to be better. Now they were free. 

 

“ _ What do you think?”  _ Bucky asked Natasha quietly enough for the landlord to not hear his Russian. 

 

“ _ I think it’s just what we need,”  _ she answered just above a murmur. 

 

It still amazed him how much grace she possessed after all this time. Not even five years ago she was surrounded by the pinnacle of St. Petersburg high society, cushioned by royalty and supported by wealth. This studio was smaller and less maintained than even his room above the shop, so far from how she was raised and all she had known before the war. Wars. This was never the life she had imagined for herself, thousands of miles from home with nearly everything she loved turned to ash around her. And yet here they stood, shaking the landlord’s hand and accepting the keys to yet another stepping stone to finally creating a life for themselves. A real life without murder or torture or revolutions or spies or plots. This could finally be peace. He heard Natasha let out a deep sigh of relief as she dropped her suitcase onto the floor, evidently not caring that the floorboards creaked under even the small weight. As the landlord shuffled away, not even closing the door behind him, Bucky put a hand on Natasha’s waist. 

 

“ _ Are we safe now? _ ” he whispered, pulling her into an embrace. “ _ Can we be happy? _ ” 

 

“ _ I think so. _ ”

 

Just as he was about to lean in for a kiss, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a figure peeking around the threshold, gently knocking on the half open door. They both turned to come face to face with a young man standing before them with a small loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He was a scrawny thing, barely coming to Natasha’s height and for sure light enough for Bucky to throw him with only one good arm, but his face was mature. Under the sandy blond hair were kind eyes and a small smile. 

 

“You’re the new neighbors from Russia, right?” he asked, extending the bread out toward them. “My mother made this for you, said she knows how hard it is to adjust to New York after the boat.” 

 

Bucky just blinked a few times before glancing over to Natasha, who put on a wide smile. 

 

“Thank you. How very welcoming,” she said in her nearly perfect English. “I’m afraid I’m a terrible cook so I won’t be able to return the favor. My name is Natasha, and this is my husband, Bucky.” 

 

_ My husband…  _ Bucky sifted the words through his mind, combing over the memories of what brief lessons Natasha had given him in their time on the way over. They meant… they meant marriage. 

 

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” the young man responded. “I’m Steve Rogers. If you need anything, we’re two door down.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


End file.
